


Sharing A Drink

by ranguvar82



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crowley and Aziraphale are Married, Drinking, Gen, Mentions of Slavery, Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26268892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranguvar82/pseuds/ranguvar82
Summary: It's after the strange man has left with the promise of meeting him in a hundred years that Hob Gadling notices the two men sitting together in the back of the pub.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Dream of the Endless & Hob Gadling
Comments: 30
Kudos: 79





	Sharing A Drink

Sharing A Drink

It’s only after the strange fellow has left(and Hob’s so called friends are done laughing at his declaration) that Gadling notices the two men sitting together in the back of the bar. They’re sitting next to each other, and there’s an air of easy, if somewhat nervous, companionship between the two of them. Full of curiosity, Hob goes over to the bar and orders three pints of ale. He balances the drinks in his hands and walks over. “Excuse me, gentlemen? Might I join you?”

The taller of the men, a redhead wearing some sort of eye covering and dressed in the latest fashions of the day(even if he chose to clad himself all in black) shrugs. “Don’t care.”

His companion, who is, somewhat ironically, dressed all in white, looks reproachful. “Really, Crowley, where are your manners? Please, sit.”

Hob takes the empty seat, and ‘Crowley’ mutters something that sounds like “Demon’s don’t have manners, angel.” “Thank you very much, good sir. Hob Gadling, at your service.” He holds out a hand and the man in white shakes it vigorously, beaming. “Aziraphale, and this is my...this is Crowley.”

“Hey.” Crowley gives a dismissive wave and takes a long sip of the ale. “Piss. So, Hob Gadling, what brings you to this wretched place, hmm?”

Hob takes a slow drink before replying. His new...immortality(though he won’t know it’s that for at least another hundred years) is telling him that these men are, somehow, like he is. “What’s your opinion on death?”

Aziraphale frowns. “The..entity or the act itself?”

“The..y’know, what supposed to happen to all of us. Rotting and all that.”

Crowley snorts. “It’s a fact of life. Hu...people die, Mr. Gadling. Part of nature and all that.”

Hob snorts. This is the same dull argument that his friends gave. “Yes, but why does it have to be like that? It’s a mug’s game, if you ask me. So I’m not going to.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Not...going to? Wot, you’re just..gonna live forever?”

Hob nods. “Yes, I am.”

Aziraphale pats his arm. “My dear man, no hu..nobody can live forever. Death is...”

“Ineffable?” Crowley asks with a hint of mockery, and Aziraphale glares at him with no real heat.

“Really, Crowley, you are incorrigible. I was going to say inevitable.” Crowley rolls his eyes and places his hand on top of the other man’s. For a brief second, Hob thinks he catches a flash of gold and silver on Crowley’s finger.

‘Can’t help it around you, Angel.” The other man’s voice is soft, almost affectionate. Aziraphale blushes.

Hob can’t help but feel he’s intruding on a very domestic scene. “If you gentlemen would like some privacy...”

Crowley seems to come back to himself. “Nah, you’re good. So, you’re not gonna die, huh?” Hob shakes his head, and Crowley grins. “Tell ya what. If you’re really serious about this, what say we meet up in...oh, one hundred years and a day? Right here, at this table. Both of us will be waiting, and if you show, well, we’ll drink the house down. If not...was nice meetin’ ya anyway.”

Hob considers this. His other companion had offered to meet him in one hundred years exactly, so one more day was simple enough. He extends his hand, and Crowley shakes it. The other man’s hand is rather warm. Aziraphale, looking somewhat nervous, also shakes. “Then it’s settled, gentlemen. I will come have a drink with you in a hundred years and one day.” He takes the empty glasses and departs. Behind him, he hears Crowley ask his ‘angel’ if he thinks Hob will show up. “You know, he just might.”

It is exactly one hundred years and a day later that Hob, fresh off his first meeting with the odd, pale gentlemen he is now certain is some sort of supernatural being, walks into the pub and spots Crowley and Aziraphale sitting at the same table(and in the same positions) that the previous meeting took place at. Hob has to blink a few times. Apart from one being dressed in the fashion of the day and the other looking like he dressed for fifty years ago, they haven’t changed at all. Crowley’s hair is longer than what most would deem fashionable, but he has it up in one of the most elaborate braids Hob has ever seen. Aziraphale is running one hand through it, and Crowley is leaning into his touch, a look of satisfaction clear even through the dark shades he is wearing. Hob goes to the bar, orders three pints, then walks over to the table and softly clears his throat.

Crowley and Aziraphale leap apart as though they’ve been stabbed. Crowley looks up, clearly about to say something extremely scathing, and his jaw drops. “Gadling? Well, I’ll be Blessed! You’re here! And you have drinks! Please, sit.” Hob takes the empty seat “So, a hundred years and a day. What sort of mischief have you gotten into?”

Hob grins, takes a long drink, and begins talking. He tells of voyages he went on, people he met(and mourned when they passed), all the wonderful advances he witnessed in art, science, and literature, how he had been in battles, in war, and how he never wants to see either again. Aziraphale nods in sympathy. “I know the feeling well.”

Hob looks askance at him. “Pardon my bluntness, but you were in a war?”

Aziraphale winces. “Oh yes. One of the most devastating there ever was or will ever be. It was...a civil war, and it tore my home apart. Things were never the same after that. He..My home became...cold.”

Crowley places his hand over Aziraphale’s softer one. “Least you still had a..home. Those of us that were on the...wrong side, we got kicked out. Had to find another place. A...not nice place.”

“I am sorry. I cannot imagine the pain of having to be an Exile.” Hob says to Crowley, who shrugs.

“Eh, I’m used to it by now. Had a good number of years to come to terms with it.” The redhead says, but Hob gets the impression that the words are just that, words with no conviction behind them. “You can get used to anything, you know.”

Hob doesn’t know, but time will prove Crowley’s adage very right. “Gentlemen, shall we ask the barkeep for one more round?” Both his companions seem amenable, so Hob orders a second, then a third, then a fourth round of drinks. His companions’ tolerance for alcohol is quite remarkable.

Hob himself passes out after the tenth drink, so he is unable to see the shadow of wings on the pub wall. He will wake up the next morning in his own rooms, his hangover miraculously absent.

Time marches on, and Hob catches glimpses, here and there, of his companions. He sees Crowley sidle up to a man and whisper in his ear. The next day, the man has stolen from his employer and left the country, never to be found again. He watches from a distance as Aziraphale speaks to a rich man, and the next day the man has given away half his fortune to the poor and set up a makeshift school.

He notices a few other oddities. Crowley never enters a church, or indeed any sort of Holy Ground, whereas Aziraphale seems to know the location of every church in the country. Crowley is never seen without his shades, and Aziraphale’s eyes show a multitude of expressions. Even odder, once in a while Hob swears that Crowley is dressed in women’s fashions. Hob files this away under things to ask about, and goes on with his business.

His fortune, which always seems to fluctuate, is at one of its lowest points when they meet up again. Aziraphale takes one look at him and clucks like a mother hen. “Oh my dear boy, you look terrible! Drinks are on me this time. I insist. And I also insist that you get some food in you. Barkeep, three pints please, and also some of that lovely roast.” The barkeep looks like he’s about to protest when Aziraphale pulls out a purse that’s heavy with coin and tosses four gold pieces on the bar. Eyes wide, the barkeep sets about filling the order.

Hob takes a sip of ale(much, much improved in the two hundred years) and smiles at the two. “You’re like me.”

Crowley snorts. “Are not. You’re a...well, dunno, but you’re not like me an’ Aziraphale. So how’d you do it?”

Hob almost considers telling them about his other companion, the one that first started all of this. But something stops him. If these men are, as he believes, immortal like himself, it’s possible they came about their immortality through slightly more nefarious means, and that could put his other friend in danger. Instead, he asks, “Do you believe in the otherworldly?”

Aziraphale nearly chokes on his ale. Crowley slaps him on the back. “Oh, thank you, dear. Gadling, that is...quite the question.”

“Just a question.” Hob says, shrugging, and Crowley grins. “Do you?”

“We’d be rather great hypocrites if we didn’t.” Aziraphale says dryly. Crowley’s grin gets wider.

“Big believers in strange things, us. Biggest believers you’ll ever meet, Hob Gadling. Or is it Robert now?”

“How did you…?”

“Might have heard it, here and there. Angel and I have been a lot of places in the past hundred years. Not always together, but we got ways of keeping in touch. How’s the roast?”

Hob blinks and glances down at his steaming plate. “Oh, delicious. Aren’t you having any?”

“Nah, not much for food, me. Aziraphale will eat my portion, like always.” Crowley smiles at his companion, and once again Hob feels like he is intruding on a singularly intimate scene. “S’wot he’s done since Rome, after all.”

Aziraphale smiles bashfully. “You are far too good to me, dear.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

“I mean, he’s got the talent. There’s no denying it. But poor Bill lacks the skill to take the talent and make it into something. So my...friend, he...I think he may have made some sort of deal.” Hob says, peering into his empty glass. Crowley nods, already halfway to drunk himself.

“Who’s this friend of yours?” Aziraphale asks, blinking. “Wos’ he like?”

Hob thinks as best as he can through the alcohol induced haze. “He’s..tall. Very tall, an’...pale. Never smiles. Very...wossat word, not cold...but...”

“Aloof?” Crowley suggests, draining the last of his ale and letting out a titanic belch. Aziraphale glares at him.

“Yes!” Hob says, holding up one hand in triumph and consequently nearly toppling off the chair. Aziraphale steadies him. “Oh, thank you. Yes, that’s the word.”

“Sounds like a real tosser.” Crowley says from under the table.

“Think he’s lonely.” Hob says. “He keeps coming to these meetings, one day before my meetings with you, and he claims it’s just to check up on me, but I think he’s lonely.”

“Nah, probl’y just a tosser.” Crowley crawls back into the chair. “So, Gadling, wot you been up to?”

Hob grins and begins to regale them. There’s been a few times, during the long years he’s been alive, that his two companions have been unable to make the meeting. Hob always gets a letter the very next day apologizing for their absence, and promising to make the next meeting. Neither Aziraphale or Crowley ever say what they do for a living, but Hob has gleaned that their jobs take them all over the globe. And so on days when they’re absent, he drinks a pint in their honor and sends up a prayer that they will be safe.

It’s the least he can do for the two men who are, without any exaggeration, his best friends.

“IT’S A LIVING?! WHAT THE HEAVEN IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Hob has never, in all his long life, seen Crowley as utterly furious as he is now. The very fires of Hell seem to be rolling off him, and Hob is sure that if it wasn’t for the miraculously calming presence of Aziraphale(who is also looking thunderous, an expression that is somehow more terrifying on a cherubic face) he would be seriously injured by the red head. “THEY. ARE. PEOPLE. HUMANS. YOU ARE SELLING OTHER HUMANS! HOW IS THAT RIGHT? HOW DARE YOU SAY IT’S JUST A LIVING?! IT’S NOT A LIVING, IT’S...DESTRUCTION! YOU ARE DESTROYING LIVES! IT’S...”

“Crowley, please, calm yourself. I know France got you all in a lather...” Aziraphale says calmly.

Crowley slumps into Aziraphale’s side. “Almost lost you...”

Hob blinks. “Were you in France, Aziraphale?”

Crowley nods. “Idiot went there dressed like a damned aristo because he wanted crepes. Silly angel’s fortunate I came and got him before he got disc...uh, beheaded.”

Aziraphale looks contrite. “I can’t help it if I have standards. But on the brighter side, I’ve opened a bookshop! Bob, you must come by and see it. I’ve set it up in Soho under the name A.Z. Fell.”

Hob beams. “I would be delighted.”

The next meeting, Hob cannot help but notice that Aziraphale is alone, and looking miserably unhappy. He gets the drinks, then sits down, silently passing Aziraphale’s over. “Where’s Crowley?”

Aziraphale gulps. “We...had a fight. He wanted me to...give him something. Something that could...hurt him, very badly. Kill him, in fact. I refused, and...may have called what we have...just..fraternization. Words were exchanged, and he stormed off. I haven’t spoken to him since, and...I miss him so much.”

Hob places his hand on Aziraphale’s arm. “I’ve known both of you for almost five hundred years, now. And I’ve never asked this of you, so forgive me if it’s too personal. Are you and Crowley...”

“Lovers?” Aziraphale asks, blinking back tears. Hob nods. “We’re more than that, Hob Gadling. He’s been my...spouse for nearly five thousand years now. And I fear...I hope to Someone he still loves me after this foolish mistake I made.”

Hob gapes. “Five thousand...”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose it is time you learned the truth of us, Hob Gadling. We are not like you, because Crowley and I are not human at all.” He sighs, then waves his hand. “We’re cloaked from the sight of everyone else.”

As Hob watches, Aziraphale stands. “Be not afraid,” he intones, and Hob gasps in shock as white wings burst from his back. Eyes open in the feathers, and a blinding white light surrounds what Hob now realizes is a living, breathing angel. “I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guard of the Eastern Gate of Eden.” Aziraphale shakes himself. The glow fades, and the eyes close, but the wings remain. Hob reaches out a hand. “Careful, the bottom ones are very sharp. I was created to guard.”

Hob lays a hand on the feathers. They’re real, warm and solid beneath his touch. “Is Crowley an angel as well?”

“He is the Serpent of the Garden, the first Tempter, the one who gave humans knowledge.”

“Demon?”

Aziraphale nods. “And yes, the irony of an angel and a demon being married has not escaped us. But we pledged to love each other no matter what. And now...because of me, that pledge could be lost.”

“You know...” Hob begins, not believing he’s about to give advice on love to an actual angel, “I’ve had many wives over the years, as well as lovers. Hurt like hell when they passed, let me tell you. But the thing is, I never once regretted any time I spent with them. Some I admit I loved more than others. But you and Crowley-there’s this..I’m not sure how to describe it, but it’s almost as if human love pales in comparison. I don’t know how I know, but he’ll forgive you. I’m certain he will.”

(As it turns out, Hob is correct. The forgiveness will come in the form of a daring rescue, in a church during the Blitz, after which the angel and his husband will spend the next two months tangled up in each other.)

“I didn’t think you’d show up.” Hob says, smiling up at his friend. The other...man? Smiles.

“Really? I thought it was only polite to join your friend for a drink. May I sit?”

Hob nods, and Dream sits. “It is good to see you, Hob.”

“Yeah, you...” Hob looks over Dream’s shoulder and grins. “I’ll be buggered, they made up! Crowley! Aziraphale! Over here!” He waves wildly, then grins at Dream. “I hope you don’t mind if some other friends join us.”

Crowley and Aziraphale come over, and Crowley gapes at the entity sitting with Hob. “Bloody buggering fuck, Gadling, you could have told us at some point that your other drinking buddy was Lord Bloody Morpheus!”

Dream’s lips twitch in what could almost be called a grin. “Hello to you too, Zophiel.”

Crowley flinches. “Not anymore, Murphy. It’s Crowley.”

Aziraphale whimpers. “Crowley, we do not call Dream of the Endless Murphy! Have some respect!”

“Aziraphale. It has been quite some time.” Dream bows his head. “Would you...care to join us for a drink?”

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other. “Sure, why not?” Crowley says.

“The more, the merrier.”


End file.
